


this is how i die now (hands to the air)

by floresetcorvi



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Drug Use, M/M, Suicide, Swearing, Violence, k gets a call announcing he's gonna die today, mature bc i don't think kavinsky-related things can be rated anything else
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-10-02 10:03:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17262239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/floresetcorvi/pseuds/floresetcorvi
Summary: It’s not even one in the morning of the Fourth of July and Kavinsky already knows he’s going to die. It’s not just a feeling or a hunch he has. No. He's sure of it.He’s sure, for he received that phone call, the one that announces you’re going to die within the next twenty-four hours and it’s your last chance to do something with your life.It’s Fourth of July and Joseph Kavinsky is going to die.He will make it memorable.





	this is how i die now (hands to the air)

**Author's Note:**

> this has been sitting on my drive for a while now, and i finally finished it. the idea came after i read _They Both Die At The End_ , by adam silvera. it's a beautiful, delicate, heart felt story about two boys who fall in love on the last day of their life.  
> about the au: it's a world in which there exists a thing (death-cast) that calls you telling you're gonna die within the next twenty-four hours.  
> all the names and previous events mentioned here i took from my [wip](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17660384/chapters/41649458) about pre canon kavinsky.  
> the title is from [icarus](https://youtu.be/X5s8TvI1HXU), by eden.  
> please enjoy!!!

**00:48**

 

It’s not even one in the morning when Joseph Kavinsky receives his call from Death-Cast. It wakes up the whole house. Skov is at his door in no time, his eyes wide with that mix of terror and anger. Swan is next, her tall figure appearing behind Skov’s. Jiang isn’t home. Prokopenko is a dream, merely gazing at him with glazed, brown eyes from where he’s lying on his spot on the bed.

It’s Fourth of July.

How fucking ironic.

 

**01:03**

 

Skov is sitting at the table, a mug of hot chocolate with maybe a bit too much of cognac sits in front of him. Jiang is home since they called. “K got his call,” he said and she ditched Declan to come home.

The four of them are still haunted by the day Prokopenko got his Death-Cast call, ten months ago. Kavinsky remembers it very well. It was almost two in the morning when the house flooded with that blaring siren, that endless church bell ringing and ringing. That day would haunt Kavinsky for the rest of his life, which means today.

 _Fucking finally,_ he thinks to himself, although he doesn't say it to the crew.

It's not fair with them, and even though no one looks at Joseph Kavinsky as the kind to give a few shits about his so-called friends, he does care. Somehow, this broken, dysfunctional group of four people and a dream means something to him. It was better when they were five people, not one dream in sight, but things don't always go his way, do they?

Up to this point, Kavinsky's life has been the endless _tick-tick-tick_ of those towers in amusement parks, taking him higher and higher, and whenever he felt like he'd finally be dropped from the clouds, he was disappointed.

Until now.

He's finally going down and he will make it memorable.

After he picks up the call from Death-Cast, Kavinsky doesn't really pay attention to what the girl on the other end is saying. She tells him to login on _deathcast.com_ , so he can specify things about his burial, which he doesn't care about. People can write ‘motherfucker’ on his tombstone, for all he cares. “Joseph,” she said and it made his skin crawl. “On behalf of everyone here at Death-Cast, we are sorry to lose you. Live this day to the fullest, alright?” and he has to laugh.

No one but these three losers standing on the kitchen will ever be sorry about losing someone like Joseph Kavinsky. Getting rid of him is the dream of whole fucking Henrietta. Maybe even New Jersey's. He's nothing but trouble, anyway. Fire hazard, as Skov once told him in an afternoon back in April, three years ago. For everyone, he's fire hazard, trying his best to drag people into the range of his side effects.

It's his last day alive. It's a relief, really, but there's something tugging at the bottom of his stomach, pounding at the back of his head, hurting at the core of his heart, that makes dying feel like a bad thing. He ran out of time coin to spend after throwing it at nothing for so long, and it should be a relief, so why does it feel like a bad thing? He's been asking for it since Evgeni’s death.

There were countless sleepless night and absurdly early mornings that he'd hold his pistol to his temple or stand at the ledge of a building, and wonder. _Why not?_ He could defy Death-Cast, choose his own End Day, be in control because no one ever drives him.

Skov is speechless again, and everyone who knows Blake Skovron knows he loves to run his mouth. Swan is looking down at her hands, at her chipped nail polish. Jiang is leaning against the fridge. None of them knows what to say, just like they didn't know what to say to Proko’s call.

Except for him. Kavinsky has had a lot to say about it. He shouted and broke many things, throwing them. Skov punched him out of that, saying it wasn't fair to waste Genko's last day like that, but it wasn't fair that that was Genko's last day, either, so why did it matter?

But maybe Death-Cast was wrong, maybe it dialled the wrong number, maybe it was a prank. Maybe, maybe, maybe. Evgeni Prokopenko died on that fateful day, and took with him a piece of Joseph Kavinsky that could never be retrieved from his delicate, cold, dead hands.

Kavinsky tried his best to find a way around Evgeni's death, a way to change it. When he came home with a dream version of the boy, a few weeks later, Jiang punched him, and he knows he deserved it.

But Joseph Kavinsky will never forget the phone ringing, waking him from one nightmare and into another one, one he couldn't wake up from, and God knows he tried. Since everything else failed, he numbed himself drinking, getting wasted, puking his guts out every other day, almost overdosing on new things because, hey, Death-Cast didn’t call so he was good.

Inside, Joseph Kavinsky is a mess, and has been like that for a while.

“We should have a Funeral,” Swan speaks up. “We had one for Proko.”

“No,” Kavinsky cuts. He doesn’t want that. His Funeral won’t be held in this place, the only place that still means something good for him. It doesn’t feel right to stain it with death once again. “My Funeral will be the Fourth,” he says with a wide grin and it’s too much like a grimace.

 

**01:49**

 

Blake Skovron can’t believe he’s going to lose another friend. Well, or as much as one can call someone like Joseph Kavinsky a friend. Oh, to Hell with it. They _are_ friends. Maybe Skov won’t ever know him as well as Evgeni did, but they’ve been hanging out for a couple of years, now, and that means something.

Maybe Skov doesn’t know the stories behind his scars, or why Kavinsky won’t go back to New Jersey, or his favourite colour, which is something Skov doesn’t know if he ever stopped to decide that (he did; it’s rose gold).

Yeah, Skov doesn’t know those things, but he was the one to find Kavinsky passed out on a puddle of his own vomit, wasting himself dreaming after Evgeni’s death. It was him who dragged him out of bed every goddamn day, forcing him to live even though Kavinsky has been very clear about not wanting to.

Evgeni’s death has been hard on all of them, it's true, but it cut too deep into Kavinsky’s flesh, and finished destroying something that has been being destroyed for a while.

No person is the same after their friend received a Death-Cast call in front of them. Skov has been through it twice, which must mean he's almost a pro at it.

It's supposed to be a joke, though it isn't funny at all.

 

**01:51**

 

Cécile Swan wants to punch a wall. She'd do it, if she was the kind to punch things when upset, but that's Skov’s thing, or Jiang’s. Instead, God has given her soft palms and perfect fingernails. She looks at Joseph Kavinsky and acknowledges what's about to go down: he's going to die within twenty-four hours, and she doesn't know what to make of that.

There should be a guide of what to do when one of your closest friends receives a call announcing it's their End Day and they can be gone in the next three minutes, for all they know. But such guide doesn't exist, so Swan just stares at her hands, at those soft palms and short fingernails that grow too quickly for her liking.

God, she really wants to punch a wall. It's not fair.

Maybe no one but them and, maybe, his mother will mourn his death, maybe no one will miss him as much as they will miss his parties and his drugs. Most people don't even _like_ him; they tolerate him because they're afraid and because they like his forgeries.

Joseph Kavinsky is a wild animal, beautiful to see, dangerous to approach.

But it still isn't fair. He's still seventeen and he should have his whole life ahead of him. He doesn't _deserve_ to die.

 

**02:14**

 

Emma Jiang still can't deal with grief. It feels like frustration mixed with anger and sadness, and her body feels hollow and haunted, her heartbeat echoing against a ribcage that seems too fragile to hold her heart. The feeling is the same as of that she felt when Evgeni got his call.

Jiang doesn't understand why something like Death-Cast exists, never has. First because she can't figure out _how_ they manage to know every person’s last day of life, which always makes her think whether or not the sheer belief that one is going to die is enough to make it a reality; if calling someone and saying, “hey, you're gonna die today,” doesn't make them careless, which does result in their death. Second because she would never want to know when she's going to die.

Emma Jiang has spent far too much time fighting the inevitability of growing old, of dying, and she wishes she could just call Death-Cast and tell them to never call her, for she doesn't want to know when it's her End Day.

How can you, quote-unquote, enjoy your day and make the most of it when you know you're dying anyway? It's supposed to be a good idea, she knows, to let people know they're running out of time and they should try to make amends, or whatever. The way Jiang sees it is this: all Death-Cast does is create sadness, making people regret things they haven't done, or things they could've done differently. She thinks she'd regret what she never got to do.

If she has been the one who got the call, she'd regret not leaving Declan earlier, not telling him he's the bastard who got her fucked up about her own body; she'd regret not racing more, or not going to visit her grandparents in China, or not trying to skydive or not visiting the Grand Canyon. She'd regret not being a better daughter. Emma Jiang would regret dreams she never bothered dreaming for thinking she was just too useless to achieve them, anyway.

She really doesn't know who would want to know they've suddenly become a Decker and all they have left is twenty-four hours and a pile of regrets.

 

**02:16**

 

“Let's do something,” Kavinsky says. “I've already wasted a whole hour and I ain't getting more of those.”

He is dying, and even though he knows it, it's still hard to believein it. He's dying, but that's what he's been doing ever since he was born; it's what all humans do after they take their first breath. He’s dying and it's so hard to believe it because he doesn't look like he's dying; not physically, at least.

But it doesn't matter anymore. If he's dying, he's going down with a bang. He's going down at his Fourth, and he will make it memorable with the best forgery that he can muster. It will be fucking awesome.

They nod and Prokopenko is getting downstairs because the fucker has been sleeping, which makes Kavinsky thinks that the real Evgeni Prokopenko wouldn't have slept through his boyfriend’s Death-Cast call. But this isn't the real one and they haven't been boyfriends since Kavinsky dreamt him up. “Why is everyone here?”

“K—” Jiang starts, but she's interrupted.

“I'm dying.”

And he knows how badly he failed with that forgery when Evgeni simply mutters an ‘oh’, and resumes his walk to the fridge. “That sucks,” and Kavinsky wants to laugh at himself as much as he wants to punch the boy of uneven shoulders for not being real, even though it's not his fault, even though he looks and feels real.

Because Kavinsky has been able to recreate every detail on Evgeni’s body. From the wide ears to the birth mark on his toe, everything about this Evgeni Prokopenko, when it comes to his looks, is the exact same. But he's never been only his looks, not to Kavinsky, not to anyone who knew him.

When he looks at Evgeni, he feels tired because a forgery can't love him back. It's the same as expecting a doll to love you back; it will never. He feels tired because it takes him back to those days, hidden in the woods of Henrietta, dreaming himself numb because he couldn't stand the loss of Evgeni.

Not when the boy meant so much to him, not when everything that mattered to Kavinsky was, in some way, tied to the very existence of Prokopenko. He wouldn't have met Skov, he wouldn't have gone to Henrietta, which meant he wouldn't have met Swan and Jiang. Everything is just pointless without him and Kavinsky feels like shit.

Everyone inside that house means something to him; they're his friends, his family. They stood by him even after he came home with a dream version of Evgeni, which has pissed them all off, and almost made them leave. But they stayed, and it's probably the reason Kavinsky is still alive; he wouldn't have been able to stand life without his friends and without Prokopenko.

And those same friends are all looking sad and it's annoying him. A lot. “Cut this bullshit,” he shouts and the four of them startle at the loud, roaring voice. “Stop this moping shit. We're all dying anyway and I'm not about to spend my End Day with sad fuckers,” he says even though he wouldn't want to spend his End Day with anyone else but these four sad fuckers.

Swan is the first to get up. Skov looks at her and she holds his gaze; they have a lot of silent conversations, the kind _he_ used to have with Evgeni before the boy flew from his seat, through the windshield, right onto the asphalt. Kavinsky doesn't have those conversations with anyone anymore, and he's never worn a seatbelt ever since. Eventually, Skov does get up, too, and Jiang walks up to him. Evgeni is lingering at the fridge, but Kavinsky knows he'll tag along.

Jiang lightly punches his arm and smiles. “Let's make some memories, then,” she says and they all leave the Den, which is how they started calling Evgeni’s place in Henrietta since people started calling them a pack of dogs. They're no dogs; they're wolves, hunting together, ruling the nights and the parties everyone talks about. They're family.

“Just one thing,” he announces before climbing inside his Mitsubishi. Evgeni is already on the passenger seat. “No one will know it's my End Day,” and he gets inside. He wants no one’s pity; he doesn't want the Oh Poor Young Boy Dying So Early In Life look. He's a king, and he'll go down as one.

 

**02:35**

 

Skov cautiously follow Swan’s Cadillac-pink Golf with his blue RX-7. It's not a surprise that Kavinsky won't let anyone drive him around, but it's his End Day and a car accident isn't unlikely to happen; it happens every day, everywhere across the country, across the _world._ Despite his own belief, Kavinsky isn't untouchable, and Skov knows that very well.

He looks on the rear view mirror and sees Jiang’s black Supra trailing behind and he remembers when Evgeni’s red Golf used to be with them. It still hurts, even after those months. It's a bit harder to move past his death when he _looks_ at Evgeni every goddamn day.

He sees the white Mitsubishi pulling over the kerb. It's Nino’s. He didn't even know the place is open 24h a day. Why the fuck would Kavinsky come to Nino’s, of all places? The pizza isn't even good. The only reason K ever comes to this shithole is when Lynch is there, but Skov doubts they'll see him there at two in the morning.

But he doesn’t say anything as he follows Kavinsky inside as he strides towards the booth they usually sit at, the one at the back, where the dim light barely reaches them. The waitress with uneven, clipped hair, is looking like she’d rather kiss a frog than to be waiting their table, but that may be because it’s two in the morning of the Fourth of July. No one would want to be working, Skov knows that much.

“What can I get you?” she asks after they flipped through the pages, but who would want to have pizza at two in the morning?

 

**02:37**

 

When Blue Sargent sees the white Mitsubishi approaching, three other cars trailing behind it, she wants to throw the menus and her apron on the ground and leave. A few days ago, the name Joseph Kavinsky wouldn’t strike her as relevant. Well, the name would only make her think of parties the people at her school talk about every now and then.

But now, Blue Sargent knows a bit of who Kavinsky is, and it’s enough to make her want him as far from her as possible. He’s the worst kind of Raven Boy there is to be: the kind to treat people like trash because they’re self-entitled assholes; the kind to think he can do whatever he pleases because the world is nothing but his playground; the kind who smells too much of trouble.

Someone bathed in gasoline shouldn’t walk around with a lighter, and yet, there is Joseph Kavinsky.

When she sees the infamous white Mitsubishi Evo parking this late in the night, or early in the morning—she’s not sure, and she can’t believe she’s even _working_ at two in the goddamn morning, but her hatred for capitalism and how it forces people under ridiculous working conditions is something she leaves for another night—, she knows it means trouble.

After waiting their table, Blue calls Ronan and, as expected, he doesn’t pick up, which is why she calls Gansey, instead. He picks up within seconds. “Jane?” his voice isn’t sleepy, and it’s not a surprise. “Is everything okay?”

“Can you ask Ronan to come to Nino’s?”

“Yeah,” he says, confusion flooding his voice, and she can almost picture the look on his face. “Sure. But why?”

“Kavinsky’s here,” and she knows Ronan can’t do much about it, can’t kick the boy out, but Blue Sargent has the feeling that Ronan Lynch is the only breathing person close to the trouble that is Joseph Kavinsky, except Ronan is a good person.

 

**02:40**

 

Richard Campbell Gansey III isn’t about to die within the next day because Death-Cast hasn’t called him yet. However, Blue Sargent _has_ called him just at the same time as he was glueing a tiny church near Aglionby Academy on his tiny Henrietta.

When Richard Campbell Gansey III knocks on Ronan Lynch’s door, he isn’t answered right away and he can hear a faint, muffled sound of electronic music. Headphones. “Ronan?” he calls. “Ronan, are you alive in there? Ronan!”

And the other boy must hear something because he shouts, “Come in!” and when Gansey does so, he smiles mockingly. “How may I be of help?”

“Blue called.”

“And why are you telling me this?”

“Because you don’t answer your phone,” which makes Ronan glance at his phone. Gansey sighs. For anyone else, this sigh simply resembles annoyance over Ronan’s inability to pick up his phone, but Ronan knows it means Gansey is tired. Not of him, specifically, but of everything—Glendower, Blue’s call, Aglionby, life. “She said Kavinsky is at Nino’s,” and it’s inevitable how he grimaces as he says the name.

“What am I supposed to do about that, kick him out?”

“I don’t know,” Gansey says, honestly. “She just asked me to tell you to go there.”

It’s almost three in the morning on the Fourth of July, and Ronan Lynch doesn’t have anything to do, but when he woke up yesterday, he hasn’t pictured himself doing anything Kavinsky-related. He doesn’t know what Sargent might be expecting from him, but he gets up anyway. “Are you coming?” he asks Gansey, hand hovering above the doorknob.

“She asked for you. Tell her I said hi.”

“You already told her yourself when you picked up the phone,” he says and he leaves Monmouth. Gansey knows he’ll tell Blue he said hi.

 

**02:51**

 

Jiang can’t figure Joseph Kavinsky out, and she’s the closest one of the pack with him, after Evgeni.

They order a pepperoni pizza because it’s what Prokopenko wants. Apparently, Kavinsky dragged them to Nino’s even though he doesn’t want any pizza. Now, she’s biting at the pizza crusts Evgeni doesn’t eat and Swan is stealing pepperonis and eating them. Skov isn’t eating anything, just gazing through the window. Then, his eyes widen and Jiang sees a black BMW parking.

She looks at Kavinsky and he's smirking, that small curl at the right corner of his lips that tell he just got whatever he came for. After that, it's not hard to connect the dots: Kavinsky doesn't give a shit about Nino’s or pizza; it's all about Ronan Lynch, who swings the door so strongly that, if they weren't the only people there, it would've drawn attention.

How Kavinsky knew Ronan’s friend had a shift at this specific time of the morning, Jiang doesn't know and doesn't think she ever will.

Ronan nods towards the hostess. “Gansey said hi,” and his gaze drop on Kavinsky, whose smirk widen into a smile, the warm and friendly one that is too fake to convince anyone, but he somehow still manages to make it charming.

After Evgeni died and dream-Evgeni became something Kavinsky couldn't stand, Ronan Lynch became his favourite pastime, which means he became their pastime, too. Since then, every goddamn day Kavinsky wastes at least ten minutes staring at Ronan as if he has some magic powers that will bring the boy to him. Jiang doesn't mind doing it because Ronan looks like his brother in some way, and Declan's face is as beautiful as the lies he tells her, although Declan's beauty is more polished, more _restrained_ than his brother’s.

 

**02:53**

 

Coming to Nino’s to get to Lynch has been a hell of a wild guess, and Kavinsky is still surprised it worked. “Hey, Lynch, what a surprise,” he calls and Skov’s worry-meter is rising by the second, he can feel it. “Are you coming tonight?”

Ronan laughs, bitter and sharp. “No.”

But Kavinsky knows he will. He will get Ronan Lynch in his Fourth because there's no way he'll miss Kavinsky’s own finale. “Didn't I made it very clear, man?” he asks around the can of Pepsi Twist he's been drinking. “Either with me or against me.”

Ronan sprawls his hands on the table and leans forward. “Didn't _I_ made very clear? It's _never_ going to be me and you,” he says slowly and chill runs down Kavinsky’s spine.

His grin widens and his mind goes back to when Ronan finally managed to dream that ugly ass Camaro. Who in the world would want an _orange_ car? Dick fucking Gansey would. How stupid he's been, to believe Ronan would be different, would see him differently. Everyone is just the same: by his side as long as they can profit from it. The only exception he ever found is these four losers.

He takes a couple of leather bracelets from his pockets and toss them at Lynch, who grabs them out of reflex and rolls his eyes as soon as he sees what's in his hands. “Giving me gifts won't change my mind,” he says.

“I thought that's what Dick did for you,” he mocks because at this point, it's only about pissing Ronan off. Kavinsky knows he's not getting anything from the boy, being as in deep for Dick Gansey III as he is, for some reason. They have much more in common with each other than with a Gansey, Kavinsky is sure of it.

“You don't know shit.”

“Oh,” he crosses his arms in front of his chest. “Then tell me, Lynch, what the _fuck_ does Dick do for you? Enlighten me, please,” and his mocking smile is enough to make Ronan’s mouth twitch from anger. His hands strangle the leather bracelet and Kavinsky tries his best to keep his mind from wandering about.

“You already gave me these,” Ronan snarls, instead, but pockets the bracelets anyway.

“Gave you a fucking car and you didn't give a shit. Figured I'd stop wasting energy in impressive gifts,” he shrugs and gets up, not bothering to avoid Lynch’s leaning postures, bringing their faces so close his stomach twists. What a waste. He looks at the waitress, whose stare is about to set him on fire. He leaves a hundred dollar bill and smiles. “Thank you, baby doll,” and he leaves before she can think of a reply.

He's about to shut the door of his Mitsubishi when Skov's hand stop it and pulls it open. “The fuck you called him for?”

“I didn't,” Kavinsky answers, his gaze fixed on Lynch through the window. “The waitress did,” and he looks at Skov, who's clearly annoyed, his fist curling too tightly around the metal of the door. He puts a cigarette between his lips and starts looking for his lighter.

“How did you even know she'd be working at this hour?”

 _Ah, here it is,_ and he lights the cigarette. He blows the smoke on Skov’s face just to piss him off even more. “I had a hunch.”

“You wanna know what I have a hunch about?” he asks.

“Nah, but you'll tell me anyway,” he takes a drag. Evgeni’s hand is on his knee and Kavinsky thinks about swatting it away. He doesn't and looks at Skov.

“That you're full of shit.”

“Is that your hunch? I mean, I thought this was common sense,” he jokes, but Skov doesn't laugh.

“Why would you even want to see him?” and Kavinsky doesn't answer.

Ronan Lynch does _something_ to him. It's not what Evgeni has once made him feel; no one will ever make him feel what Prokopenko did, he knows that now. It's not like he has plenty of time to be proven wrong. However, Lynch feels like the thrill of a new drug, like the expectation of what effect it'll have on him.

It's like this: Ronan Lynch makes Kavinsky feels something, and the boy craves emotions, real feelings, as he craves his cocaine.

Skov is waiting for an answer, and Kavinsky feels a pull in the back of his mind, so he makes a line on the dash of his car. Skov is still waiting as he inhales every ounce of the white powder.

Kavinsky doesn't have an answer. Maybe he wanted to tell Ronan that he's dying today just to see what would happen, if Ronan would care, if he'd regret treating him like shit after getting his fucking Camaro back, if he'd change his mind about ‘never going to be you and me’. Kavinsky wants to know if he matters to anyone but this dysfunctional family.

“It's whatever, man,” he lies, instead, pulls the door closed and fake salutes Skov before starting the Mitsubishi.

Prokopenko is beside him, looking at him with empty eyes. “The fuck I made you for?” he mutters around the cigarette. Evgeni doesn't seem to care enough to answer, or maybe he doesn't know the answer for it. Kavinsky wonders if he's aware he's just a product of his Joey’s head, if it even matters to Prokopenko.

It would, for the real one. “Where are we going, now?” Evgeni asks, hand now resting on Kavinsky's thigh. This time, he swats it away and Prokopenko doesn't mind, just stares through the windshield. Is he remembering how it felt like when he died? But Kavinsky doubts it; he can't forge feelings that aren't his, so this Prokopenko doesn't know what dying feels like.

He drives to the fairground, taking his mind away from Evgeni for a brief moment. He looks at the dozens, maybe hundreds, of white Mitsubishis, some better forged than others. “What are we doing here?” Evgeni asks in his small voice as they gaze upon the white cars. From the rear view mirror, Kavinsky can see the pack’s headlights.

This place is symbolic. It's where he threw his first party, weeks before moving to Henrietta, three years ago. Back then, both his father and Prokopenko has been alive. He can't help but wonder what Andrei felt when he heard his call, if he imagined his own son would kill him.

He gets out of the car and stands under the archway that has once held the letters for whatever name this fairground used to have. His friends are quick to pick up. “What are we here for?” Jiang asks.

“To blow some shit up.”

“Your pyromania is deeply concerning,” she comments.

Yeah, maybe. Church has that whole thing about purification through fire, doesn't it? They've burned witches and stuff, right? Well, then that's what he's doing, purifying some shit.

“When I'm gone,” he says, eyes fixed on the sea of white cars of black, grilled mouths, and dubious art on the sides, “burn every single one of these beauties.”

“Why?” Swan asks.

Kavinsky shrugs. “I want it to be abandoned again, for some new fuck up like me to take it,” _purifying some shit._

Skov agrees. “You throwing the Fourth at the drag strip?”

“It's tradition, isn't it?” and he vaguely remembers a conversation with Prokopenko about traditions being important to his family. He's still trying to figure out what his finale is gonna be; the war tank was dope, but he needs something more, bigger, shinier, louder. He's still trying to find a way to get Ronan to his party.

His mind bubbles with an idea and he smirks.

 

**03:14**

 

As he drives back to the Den, Kavinsky thinks he should've made some bucket list because he has no idea of what to do with whatever is left of his End Day.

 _What do I want to do,_ he wonders.

He wants to say goodbye to his mother. Monika Kavinsky isn't the worst thing in his life; she's not the best either, but the best died ten months ago, so it doesn't make a difference. Monika is the reason he can turn his nightmares into solid, real things, and he's the reason she's always drugged out of her mind. Maybe they've made it even between them.

He wants to tell Prokopenko that he's also dying, but it doesn't feel fair. He should tell the pack, too, but Kavinsky doesn't feel like it.

He wants to kiss Lynch, to find out how much of poison there is in the bite of that specific snake, to see if it feels as good as it does in his dreams. But Lynch hates him, so he can cross that out of his wishlist. It's not his fault, though, Joseph Kavinsky is, indeed, very hateable.

Knowing you're going to die is scary. Dying is scary. All it takes is one misstep, one bad call, and it's over. He still remembers how it was Evgeni’s last day; he only lived sixteen hours of it.

Has it always been fated to be like that, written in the stars or some shit? If Evgeni dated someone else, maybe he'd still be alive. Maybe it would've been different. But Kavinsky is past the ‘what if’s and maybes; his guilt is already a part of him, as natural as his fingers.

He doesn't pay attention to it. If he does start to wonder what could've been of Evgeni Prokopenko if not for him, he does a line and forgets about it.

It's pathetic, but he's also past that. He wanted to stop dreaming, and his drugs helped. By the time he came up with his pills for that, the black ones, he was already far too deep into his addiction to stop. Skov is still angry at him for that, Jiang is disappointed, he doesn't know what Swan feels.

“You okay, Joey?” Evgeni asks as he parks the car in the garage.

“I'm fucking great, Genko.”

“Doesn't look like it.”

Kavinsky scoffs as he slams the car door. “Aren't you a little genius?”

Evgeni looks sad, or hurt, or something, and it catches him off guard; he has never taken his dream for something that can feel things. Prokopenko walks around the car and stops in front of him, delicate fingers hold Kavinsky’s wrist above his vein. “What's going on, Joey?”

“Why do you care?” Kavinsky pulls his arm free. “I'm fucking dying. That's what's going on. Why the fuck do you care?” he asks again.

“You're my friend.”

“I used to be more than that,” and there's a bitter smile on his face. Kavinsky hasn't meant the words to come out. _Fuck this._

“I know,” Evgeni answers in that small voice of his. “I also know I used to be more than this,” and Kavinsky's blood freezes in his veins, his heart forgets how to beat and air escapes his lungs. Prokopenko gives a small smile and fidgets with the hem of his shirt. “C’mon, Joey. You couldn't have thought I wouldn't find out, could you?”

 _This is a dream,_ he reasons. There's no way Evgeni found out, but he doesn't remember going to sleep. “How?”

“I can't break. I fell from the stairs once and not one bruise, scratch or anything. Did you make me of titanium or something?” he chuckles. Kavinsky feels his head spinning. “Also, I don't remember many things. I don't have memories, Joey.”

“I can't give you what I don't know,” he mutters under his breath.

“I know,” Evgeni shrugs and holds Kavinsky's wrist. His blood is pumping right underneath his skin. He wonders if he dreamt blood for the boy in front of him. “I'm dying today, too, aren't I, Joey?”

There's a knot on his throat, and Kavinsky feels a bitter laugh bubbling inside of him; he's been convinced all of his tears has dried out some time ago. “Yeah,” he manages. “You are. Sorry.”

“It's okay, I guess. I've been wanting to for a while, but it's not like I can throw myself off a building and die. I guess you made sure of it, didn't you?”

“I…” Kavinsky trails off. His heart aches as if the pain of Evgeni’s death is freshly inflicted. He snaps out of it. “It'd have been a waste of time if you were that easily broken, wouldn't it, Genko?”

He thinks of the many times he's seen Evgeni spaced out, looking through the window, eyes glazed and focused on nothing. He's always dismissed it as something dreams like him do. Maybe it meant something more. As a matter of fact, Kavinsky has never thought Prokopenko felt anything, emotionally wise. Maybe he didn't, but he learned how to.

Is humanity something that can be learned? _It doesn't fucking matter,_ he thinks.

“Is this,” Evgeni gestures at himself, “having me again?”

 _No._ Dream-Prokopenko has never been the same as the real one; he looks the same, yes, Kavinsky has looked at Evgeni enough to remember every detail about the boy’s appearance. But everyone from the pack can say he's not the same, not even close to it.

Dreaming Evgeni was not like dreaming his father. The image of who Andrei Kavinsky was was clear; a monster, the boogeyman of children's books. Andrei was his nightmares, every one of them until they became Evgeni. But these nightmares hurt a little more than they frighten him. Dreaming Prokopenko was hard because Prokopenko wasn't a simple concept with a face; not to Kavinsky, at least.

He shoves past Evgeni and walks inside the Den.

He looks at Jiang. “I'm going to sleep.”

“What if you die while you're asleep?”

“Then, I'm dead. Who cares?”

 

**04:36**

 

Jiang feels something unpleasant inside of her.

It's similar to what she felt after Evgeni’s call, but bigger. It's unsettling. When she looks at Kavinsky, his electric, blue eyes, his sharp nose and his chapped lips, Jiang can't bring herself to imagine him old.

She can picture Swan with strands of grey hair, wrinkles on her perfect hands, slender fingers shaking. She can see Skov with his brown hair again, telling stories to his kids, and blasting EDM songs that will be retro in thirty or forty years. Jiang could see herself, though not _old,_ but in her forties, doing something out of her life. She used to be able to see Prokopenko, too, living happy in the countryside, for some reason.

But Kavinsky, she could never picture him with the signs of the years wearing him down. He, sometimes, feels as if made of marble, youth trapped under his skin. Youth runs through his veins, spilling from it, flooding his parties. Youth is the very core of Joseph Kavinsky's existence, and maybe it makes sense he won't live past seventeen.

However, it doesn't matter _who,_ dying at the age of seventeen is unfair

 

**04:38**

 

Evgeni Prokopenko has been living in a constant limbo for the past ten months.

It's funny how Kavinsky really believed he didn't know that there are many things wrong about himself. His head is often so empty, so devoid of any kind of memory, stripped down of any sort of identity; how could he not know?

Every time he looks at Kavinsky, he's taken over by some familiarity. Kavinsky makes him think of a few things he does remember, a few memories they probably shared and we're now imprinted inside his mind. Evgeni still feels haunted.

It's weird, this limbo, this being but not quite. He's human, but not quite; he's alive, but not quite. He is, but not quite. Evgeni is a piece of mind, a work of thoughts, a dream, and it's a lonely thing to be. There were late nights that Skov would find him alone in the backyard, rocking back and forth on the swing. “Tell me of who I was,” he'd ask and Skov would tell; sometimes he cried, sometimes he clenched his fists, sometimes he refused to say anything.

But it was still wrong, still not enough.

If Kavinsky stole dreams, Evgeni stole memories.

He hungrily scavenged for them, searching and needing them, because what's a person if not a collection of memories? Maybe that's why he'll never be without a ‘but not quite’ following his verb; he'll never have memories of who he's supposed to be, just those his friends tell him about or the ones he makes.

But there's an insistent void at the back of his mind, and it roars when he looks at Kavinsky. Maybe it's the memory of death.

Evgeni still doesn't know how he died, where he's buried. His friends refuse to say anything. Kavinsky's eyes turn dark when he asks.

It's sad to be, but not quite. To exist even though it's fleeting, fading, wrong. Prokopenko used to wonder if he has a soul, but he doubts his Kavinsky could create such a thing. No matter how powerful he is, a soul is something only God can make. Joseph Kavinsky is no god, no matter what he thinks.

Gods don't die, and the Den still echoes with the blaring of church bells.

 

**06:16**

 

Kavinsky wakes up with a dangerous grin that shows too much teeth. Skov has been around long enough to know it means trouble, and fighting it it's pointless. So he sighs and waits. The question, though, it's not what he expected. “Jiang, what does it take to get Declan Lynch at a party?”

She laughs in a mocking tone. “You think you can bring _him_ to your Fourth when even your Lynch doesn't want to go?” she eyes him. “You can't. He doesn't attend parties on the drag strip. C’mon, Joe, you know that.”

“The fuck you care so much about Lynch?” Skov asks.

For the last months, Ronan Lynch is Kavinsky's obsession, and it's annoying.

It's annoying because it's clear Lynch doesn't want shit to do with them, aside maybe some street race, perhaps drugs. It's been almost two months since Ronan last showed up at a party. Well, there was that time he showed up with Gansey and Skov wanted to throw up for reasons other than the alcohol.

Those days Kavinsky disappeared without notice, and Skov saw him with Lynch, both of them shirtless, sweaty, climbing in and out of the Mitsubishi, looking trashed, he punched a tree and watched his split knuckles glisten with red.

It's pathetic.

It's some humiliating, sick, one-sided pining that Kavinsky insists on keep going. Skov knows he knows it, and the thought that this might be what fuels this pining, makes him want to punch his friend for being this stupid.  

After Evgeni’s death, Kavinsky became ridiculously stupid.

“All right. What about the third Lynch? Mark? Mike?”

“Matthew,” Swan answers.

“What do you want with either of them, man?” Skov asks, irritation clear in his voice. “Drop it. He doesn't want to come, why does it matter so much for you?”

“Because it does,” Kavinsky snaps. He holds Skov’s gaze. He knows they could keep that going for hours, but he's reminded of the call. _Just let him do whatever; it's his End Day_. Skov shrugs. “So, what about him?”

“I don't know. Declan doesn't talk much about him. Why do you care so much about Ronan?”

“The same reason you care about his brother, and full offence to Declan, but Ronan is far more interesting.”

“You care about him because you want him to fuck you?”

Kavinsky opens a sly smile and turns away. “What do any of you know about him?”

“He goes to church on Sundays,” Prokopenko answers.

“They all do,” Jiang adds. “Though Declan complained about Ronan not going last week.”

“Never thought of Lynch as a holy boy.”

“You went to church and you're not holy,” Swan counters.

“Well,” Kavinsky grabs the key to his Mitsubishi and smiles, white teeth framed by chapped lips. Danger. “I think it's time we all relearn how to pray.”

Swan looks at Skov, her eyes filled with uncertainty. Despite everything, she's still a good person. He shrugs and they all follow Kavinsky.

 

**06:52**

 

The priest is there.

It feels bad to be in a church again. They still remind him of St. Mark, they still remind him of how Evgeni used to be the only good thing about those celebrations, they still remind him of _Evgeni_. He hates those reminders, so he cracks his knuckles.

“You're balding,” he shouts at the priest, who jumps at his voice.

“Good morning, young man,” he has a kind voice. It's annoying. Anyone knows better than to speak kindly to Joseph Kavinsky. He hates soft voices.

Skov and Swan exchanges looks. “We're waiting outside,” she says as she grabs Jiang’s arm and takes her with them. Prokopenko follows them.

They're alone. A god, a mortal, and a porcelain Jesus hanging from the cross, that is hanging from the wall. It's all too familiar.

“You know the Lynches?” he asks as he sits on a pew and throws his feet over the headrest of the front row. “Three brothers, kind of orphans,” he explains. “Shaved head, golden curls and annoying face?” The priest looks uncomfortable. “Oh, so you _do_ know them,” he smiles warmly. “At what time does the blond one gets here?”

“I'm afraid I cannot tell you this.”

“Oh,” Kavinsky spreads his arms. “Oh, of course you can. We're friends, right?” but the priest takes a step backwards. “We're not?” he places a hand over his heart and feigns hurt. “You break my heart, bald guy.”

Kavinsky gets up and walks around, lazily looking at the church and its stained glasses. He holds back his laughter when the priest whimpers every time he takes a step towards him. “Okay. We have three ways of settling this. One,” he holds up his thumb, “you tell me because you're a nice guy and Jesus told us to help those in need. I'm kind of in need, right now, you see.”

A step forward. The priest feels the pulpit touch his back.

“Two,” Kavinsky holds up his index finger, “I bribe you. Let's be honest, this place looks like shit. You can clearly use an extra budget. Or three,” he holds up his middle finger, “I can just beat the living shit out of you. Don't think I won't,” he smiles and points his finger gun at the man. “How will it be, bald guy?” he makes a shooting motion.

The priest remains silent. He laughs. “As you wish.”

 

It's fairly easy to get what he wants. One black eye later and Kavinsky finds out Matthew Lynch is likely to arrive in a few minutes. He's the kind who likes to chat with the priest before the mass, go figure.

“K,” Swan calls as they wait. “What are you planning?”

“I plan to get Lynch to come to Fourth.”

“This is already getting ridiculous,” Skov mumbles. “Stop caring about him. Why the hell is he so important? We're gonna be there, ain't that enough for you? Fuck, the whole Henrietta will be there. Why does it matter whether or not he's there?”

“Because if Ronan doesn't go, it won't be the whole town, will it?”

He refuses to say anything else. The truth is that it matters because he's been crossed, because he's been tossed aside like the Jersey trash Ronan called him of. It matters because Kavinsky is hurt and he's petty and he doesn't like being told ‘no’. _There's either with me or against me,_ and Ronan has made his choice. Kavinsky gave him the last chance to change his mind, to choose _with me._

But Ronan didn't, so now he's gonna see what's like to be on the bad side of Joseph Kavinsky.

He's not planning on truly hurting Matthew; the boy doesn't have anything to do with his brother’s poor choices. He just wants to give Ronan a little scare, and if Matthew Lynch is the way to do so, then Kavinsky is not about to argue with that. It's just about giving Ronan a little taste of what ‘against me’ means, and, boy, it ain't pretty.

But maybe it's better like this. He's dying. There's nothing left for him after that party, so even if Ronan, for whatever reason, has chosen ‘with me’, nothing would change. It's more fun like this, anyway.

“Hey, Jiang,” he calls her. She's been scrolling through her Instagram feed. “I need you to do a little something for me.”

 

**07:18**

 

When Matthew Lynch arrives at the church on foot, carrying an easy smile on his lips, Kavinsky can swear the kid has some sort of golden aura around him, as if he's made of sunshine and puppies and summer afternoons. It's gross.

He pats Jiang on the back, letting her know it's her cue. She looks uncertain. “C'mon. I promised I wouldn't hurt him, and I won't. Not a scratch. Pinky promise,” and Kavinsky lifts his pinky finger for highlight.

“He'll be pretty traumatised,” Swan says.

“Aren't we all a little traumatised?” he asks with a grin. Then, he nods towards the Sunshine Kid. Jiang sighs. She trusts him too much. From where they are (somewhat) hiding, he can see Jiang walking up to Matthew and smiling.

Emma Jiang can be a very charming person when she wants to. It's just that she seldom wants that. But whoever sees her smiling warmly at Matthew Lynch won't say she's luring him into a trap.

Jiang does what Kavinsky asked her to, and walks back with the boy trailing behind her. When he sees Kavinsky and the Pack, Matthew stops dead on his tracks; his gaze shuffles between them. He looks at Jiang and betrayal becomes a shade of colour. “Hey there,” Kavinsky greets. Matthew tries to walk away, but Jiang has a hand on his back.

“What do you want? Ronan told me not to—”

“Too bad Ronan ain’t here, right?” Kavinsky grins.

“K,” Swan calls him, a warning clear in her voice. Fucking sense of morals.

“Relax,” he says without tearing his gaze from the boy. “We're just talking,” his grin widens and Matthew doesn't even have the time to scream before Kavinsky covers his mouth with one hand. He uses the free to pin the boy’s wrists behind his back. He ushers Skov to tie the nylon clamps.

Then, he feels it; a piercing pain, something thin compressing the skin of his hand, numbing it at the edges. Matthew fucking _bit_ him. “Shit!” he exclaims, but doesn't move his hand. The teeth sink deeper into his skin and it takes a lot of self-restraint for him not to hit him.

Skov takes a while to manage to tie the clamps, but he does so eventually. Kavinsky stuffs a piece of cloth into Matthew’s mouth and Prokopenko secures it with tape. “There, there,” Kavinsky pats the boy's he's before kicking him behind the knees and bringing him down, which makes Swan gasp. “He's fine. Relax.”

“You said not a scratch,” she reminds him.

He chuckles. “After all this time, you should know already I'm really prone to lie, darling.”

 

**07:32**

 

Dealing with Matthew Lynch turns out to be a pain.

It'd be easier if he could simply drug him out of his mind, or black him out, but none of his friends would ever allow that, and Kavinsky wonders why his friends are suddenly full of morals and ethics. But the truth is that none of them has ever been a _bad_ person; maybe self-destructive, maybe offensive, perhaps an asshole, but they'd never do something truly bad.

Except for him; he's done bad things, he's doing one right now, but, alas, that's Ronan’s fault. It used to bother him, he used to have a conscience, which is now buried beside his grief and every feeling he can't cope with. Bury your dead, they said and Kavinsky buried his before they even died.

Declan called a few times. Ronan has been calling for a while, now. He finally found out, then. A smirk sneaks to his lips and he rejoices in that for a moment or two. Well, actually around fifteen minutes, which it's when he starts needing a distraction.

_You [2016/07/04 7:46]: what's up mofo_

He imagines Ronan’s confused face and laugh with himself. Then, he texts from his own phone:

_You [2016/07/04 7:46]: bring something fun for fourth of july or we'll see which pill works the best on your brother_

It doesn't take a heartbeat before his own phone displays a phone call from him. Kavinsky laughs and ignores the way Jiang looks at him. “Lynch, fancy hearing from you.”

“Where is he?” his voice is demanding, filled with a mix of anger and worry.

“You know,” Kavinsky starts, taking a while to continue just to be a little shit. “I asked nice the first few times. Are you coming to Fourth? Are you coming? Are you coming? Here, have a motherfucking car. Are you coming?” there's a bitterness in his voice that he hates. “ _You_ made it ugly. Bring something impressive tonight.”

“I'm not doing this.”

Kavinsky laughs, loud and short and dry. One echoing _ha!_ “Oh,” and he makes sure to leave the ghost of that laugh in his voice. “I think you are. Or I'll keep trying things on him,” which earns a worried look from Jiang. He dismisses it with a wave. “He can be finale tonight. _Boom!”_ and the sound startles Prokopenko. “You want to see something explodes…”

“You won't get away with this,” and there's this conviction on his voice that is always present on the voices of those who still have some sort of faith, who still believe they're the heroes and everything will work out for them because they're the good guys. _Does this make me the villain?_ he wonders. Maybe.

“I got away with dear old dad,” he says with a shrug. “And Prokopenko,” which makes his stomach churn; something ill takes over him. His grip tightens around his phone. “And no offense to your brother, but they were a lot more complicated.” They were _human_. Matthew is but a dream, he's sure of it. There's a way to him that is somehow alike Prokopenko. Also, he has a hunch, and his hunches when it comes to Ronan are often right.

“This is the wrong play,” and it's almost a growl. “I will destroy you.”

He laughs. Lynch is too good of a boy to destroy anything, no matter what he likes to think of himself. He has a fucking pet raven, for Christ’s sake. His smile widens. “Don't let me down, Lynch.”

It's almost a plea, begging for something he doesn't dare uttering.

Whatever. Lynch is getting what he bargained for.

“We gotta get out of here,” he says because he knows Ronan will come around, eventually.

“Where are we going?”

“I don't know about you, but I'm going to New fucking Jersey,” he says with a smug smile.

 

**09:54**

 

Driving has always felt good, a way to be in control, a way to be his own master. Driving has always been far from his father’s clutches, and his mother’s neglect, and everyone’s expectations of who they thought Joseph Kavinsky should be.

Driving has always meant freedom.

Now, it feels like driving to his own doom.

 

**12:21**

 

When the doorbell rang, Monika Kavinsky was a bit tipsy, but that's her normal. A long time ago, alcohol has become her water. At first, she thinks it's just her mind; she's not expecting anyone. Every Fourth of July she flies back to New Jersey, to an empty house.

Her husband is dead. She doesn't miss him.

Her son is something else. She blames herself for it.

The doorbell rings again. She's not expecting anyone. It's a holiday, so it can't be the postal service, or whatever. “For Christ's sake,” she complains in Bulgarian before stomping downstairs. She grips the handle a bit too strongly and flings the door open.

Joseph Kavinsky is standing on her door.

Her _son_ is standing at her door. “What are you doing here?”

“Hello there, mother,” he mocks. “I lost my keys.”

“What are you doing here?” she asks again because she can't believe her eyes.

“Is that how you greet your only son? Wow, mom.”

He walks around, taking in every detail. The house is still the same. No one comes around anymore. Monika only travels here every now and then, when she wants to be far from her son or when her son wants her to be far from him.

“I'm dying.”

The words reach her ears but they don't make themselves known. It sounds like a joke, or just something Joseph would say. It doesn't sound like the truth, which is why she doesn't pay attention, waiting for the laugh.

But it doesn't come.

Monika looks at her son. He looks a lot like her, the blue eyes, the thin lips, the shaking hands and the liking for drugs. She looks and looks and looks, trying—desperately needing—to find the hint of a joke.

She looks at those blue eyes, and they look back, empty and deep. No, not empty, but full of something she can't name.

Monika wonders if she even knows her son.

“Death-Cast called,” he says. He's averting her eyes. He's distant and alien and dying. Her son is dying. “I don't know. Just came around to say bye.”

Dying, dying. _Dying._ It doesn't make sense, it doesn't add up. Sons are not supposed to live less than their mothers.

Her son is dying.

“Joseph,” she says. Her voice sounds so distant, so wrong.

She stands there, looking at him.

She looks at him and she thinks of everything. She thinks of the childhood she didn't have, the education she couldn't afford, the marriage she didn't consent to. But she was poor and her family needed her. She still remembers her mother’s calloused hands and hard skin, the tiredness she wore like a second skin. She still remembers how Andrei’s eyes glistened with greed when he first witnessed her powers.

She looks at her son and she thinks. She thinks of the other three pregnancies she was forced into until she birthed him, a healthy, magical _boy._ She thinks of how she couldn't produce milk, but she couldn't bring herself to feel bad about it.

His eyes, they're are scared as hers. They hold fear like nothing else can.

Her son is dying.

It's sad, really; tragic, almost, how Monika Kavinsky has always carried her motherhood as an unwanted burden. But God knows she's human, her skin may be worn out, her body may be collapsing, but she's human.

She has never loved her son, no. He has his father’s nose and it reminds her of things she tries very hard to forget. But she recognises fear when she sees it, and it's so easy when his eyes are so alike hers. She has never loved him, how could she? He's just a child and he's not at fault, Monika knows it, but he has Andrei’s nose. “Joseph,” she says again.

Her son is dying.

For the first time in a very long time, the alcohol makes her stomach churn and she runs for the bathroom. She grips the porcelain of the toilet as bile leaves her body. It burns and burns. The white marble is cold beneath her thighs.

Monika doesn't know what she's feeling. It isn't sadness, but it isn't relief, either. It's odd, to feel again. Her alcohol, her son’s pills, her beloved thin white lines; they all did a great job at keeping every feeling at bay, be it good or bad. He’s dying, and she curses herself for thinking she'll run out of pills.

But there's more to it, some complicated kind of grief.

She hates him, can't bear looking at him, but Monika has never wanted her son to _die_. As a matter of fact, she just wanted him to live, to grow, to have it better than she did because she'd never wish that for anyone, and to go have a life somewhere but he's dying at seventeen—is he seventeen? She doesn't know, can't remember.

When Monika goes back to the living room, he's not there. “Joseph?” she calls as she walks through hallways. “Joseph?” and she finds him standing in the middle of his bedroom. It's empty, wiped out of any evidence he's ever slept in there.

He has taken a lot to Henrietta, and what he didn't, she burned.

“Already cleaned the place, huh?” he mocks without bothering to turn to face her. His voice carries a bitterness no teenager should carry.

“You took everything to Virginia.”

“Not everything,” he says. “C'mon, mother, you can't think I forgot about the bed I left.”

“You never planned to come back here, anyway.”

“It's not like I'll need them, right?” he chuckles. It's pained. Monika doesn't know why he came. It'd be better if he hasn't. She doesn't know what to do, if she needs to say something. Her son is dying and she can't bring herself to want to hug him, to comfort him. She doesn't even know if she should. He laughs, “oh my god.”

“What?”

“I told you I'm fucking dying and it looks like I just told you I forgot to buy groceries.”

“What do you want me to say, Joseph?” she snaps. Her head is throbbing. She wants a drink, the familiarity of a bottle gripped between her fingers. “What do you want me to do? I can't do anything!”

He scoffs. Monika feels lost.

She must be, indeed, a very shitty mother. Her son is dying, and she can't bring herself to know what to do. She doesn't even know what he expected her to do. “I'm sorry you're dying,” she tries.

“What is an End Day supposed to be about, anyway?”

“I don't know,” Monika answers honestly. She has never stopped to think about it. By the time Death-Cast came around, she was already too used to the numbness to care. “Closure, maybe. Tying your loose ends. I don't know, Joseph. It's about anything you want it to be,” and he looks at her.

Their relationship has always involved a lot of looking from his side, of searching inside of eyes for something, anything, that could bring them closer together. Just anything that could make things between them bearable, but whatever thing this is, it never came.

And it never will.

Monika doesn't regret being the mother she was. It was out of her reach, really. However, she does blame Andrei for being the father he was. For the violence and anger Joseph didn't deserve; for forcing their son into trying to deserve said violence and anger.

“Why did you even come?” she asks. “Why would you risk it by coming here?” Monika truly doesn't understand that. It's not as if they have ever been close to each other. But she's not dying, so she can't understand. It's not _her_ End Day. It's just another regular day, except her son is not gonna be around anymore, but it's not as if she used to notice whether or not he was around.

He shrugs. He seems lost. How often has he felt like that?

God, she's a terrible mother.

“Has it been enough?” she asks.

“What?”

“Living.”

Joseph doesn't answer. He looks through the window of his bedroom. She wonders if he's thinking of anything, if there's a significant memory related to that very window. She's not stupid to believe she can be a good mother now; she doesn't want to, but she's still human even though her humanity cowers every now and then.

So she asks again. “Has it?”

“How can I know?” he sits on the floor. “Has yours?”

“No,” Monika answers honestly. “My life was a nightmare,” and she refuses to reminisce just as she refuses to think of what could've been because Monika Kavinsky has always been a firm believer of fate. It wasn't supposed to be different.

“So was mine.”

“Wasn't there anything that made it good?”

“He's dead.”

She hums as she sits down. Evgeni Prokopenko. He should know that tragedies are bound to happen to wolves who dare loving a deer. How silly of the deer, to believe a wolf could love him back. “Did you really love him?”

“It's not like I know love enough to recognise it.”

He's deflecting, which is something she does a lot, too. It must mean that he did, somehow. It's not like Monika herself has known love. Maybe humans are like cats, they mimic what they see. How could she give love when all she has seen was violence and melancholy? It was better not to give anything at all.

“I guess you did.”

“Does it matter? He's dead.”

His fists are clenched and he's looking at the wall as if there was anything there but the white paint. “Joseph,” she calls but he doesn't move. “Joseph,” she tries again. Slowly, her son tears his gaze from the wall and looks at her. “You can wake up now.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

She shrugs. It's what felt right to say. “You know, when you dream, nothing feels real, but it doesn't feel fake, either. It's an almost reality,” she tries. Monika doesn't remember very well how dreaming felt. It's been years. “It feels veiled and it's hard to maintain control over it. Like holding your breath underwater while you try to reach the surface,” he's looking at her. “Waking up is finally breathing again. It's what used to be, for me. Wake up, Joseph.”

 

**14:09**

 

 _Wake up, Joseph_ , but Kavinsky doesn't have anything to wake up to, anyway.

His stomach complains and he realises he hasn't eaten anything aside some gummies on his way to New Jersey. He orders Chinese takeout and eat it by himself at the abandoned pumping station in Millburn.

It brings too many memories, and Kavinsky almost snaps the _hashi_.

It brings memories of Prokopenko, but what doesn't? He remembers bringing him here. It was nothing, really, the substance parties that take place here aren't _that_ underground, but, for him, for some reason, it felt intimate in a way he didn't speak or think of for months.

It brings memories of Millburn, of New Jersey, and this damned place is stained by Andrei. Involuntarily, everything takes his mind back to his father when he's in New Jersey because this place is supposed to mean home; it's where he grew up at; because home is supposed to mean family, and God knows he has a very shitty family.

He has scars to prove it, bruises that faded from his skin, but not from his memory. Whoever said you can forget pain has never known it so intimately.

He snaps the _hashi_ and curses as he tosses the takeout box on the ground.

There's noodle scattered across the dirt and Kavinsky gets into the Mitsubishi.

 

**15:32**

 

The Cemetery of St. Jude, in South Orange, New Jersey, is one lonely place, but maybe all cemeteries are, with their thundering mausoleums, holding coffins or urns; the withering flowers and the growing ivies, the broken glass on the doors of forgotten mausoleums.

He hates cemeteries. _Why are you here, then?_

Closure, as his mother has said. Kavinsky doesn't know why he should take any advice coming from Monika, but it's the closest to a direction he has.

He doesn't know _exactly_ where Evgeni was buried. He wasn't allowed in the funeral. Nikoleta, Evgeni’s mother, tried to let him in; she didn't like him, but she knew he was important to her son, and there was no one Nikoleta Prokopenko loved more than her third son. But Ivan, Evgeni’s father, was pretty adamant, even threatening to kill him if he ever set foot in that cemetery during the funeral and the burial.

Everyone was too shaken by Evgeni’s death to fight too hard.

Kavinsky has never hated that stupid feud between the families more than on that day.

He thinks of asking Skov, but he doesn't want to hear a lecture; asking Swan means asking Skov, too, because those two tell each other everything; asking Jiang feels wrong, for some reason.

So he walks, wandering through the maze of marble and cement and bricks, of crosses made of copper or iron, of stone statues. He reads some names or epitaphs, he looks at withering flowers, he avoids thundering statues.

The Cemetery of St. Jude is small, luckily, so he finds the Prokopenkos’ mausoleum within the hour.

It's under a statue of angels entangling themselves in a fight, or something else. Their faces are pained. Flanking the statue and its marble pedestal, on which is engraved, black ink on white marble, _Prokopenko. Justice and tradition above all,_ two stairways carve their way into the ground, curling around the square room of the mausoleum hall.

He can't get in, he knows it. On the marble wall of the inside, there are portraits painted on canvas. From old to young faces, the whole lineage of the Prokopenkos are on that very wall. They've been in the United States longer than the Kavinskys, he notices. Among so many unknown faces, there's one he knows far too well.

He looks at that portrait, Evgeni’s fair hair contrasting with the dark _bordeaux_ of the background. He looks stark and unreal. His ears were wider than that, but maybe the painter considered it a flaw, and fixed it on the portrait. Kavinsky hates it. His brown eyes are lighter, too. Whoever that guy is, the Prokopenkos should fire him; he's horrible at his job.

He can't get in, but he wishes he could, so he could touch the cold surface of the dried paint. Kavinsky can't guarantee he wouldn't tear it to pieces, though. That portrait doesn't do justice to who Evgeni was; it's too cold and distant, his eyes weren't of that colour, his ears weren't like that. It's a worse forgery than his dream.

He hates it.

Anyway, Kavinsky touches the glass door. _What am I even doing?_ He doesn't know, he doesn't know what to say, how to bring closure to _this_. Because if he's being honest, he doesn't want to. He doesn't want to let go of Evgeni's love, of the only tender thing he was ever capable of.

He has never been a believer of talking to tombstones, to the dead, which makes this whole stunt pointless and ridiculous. But he's already here, has come all the way to that very mausoleum, so he might as well give it a shot, even though Joseph Kavinsky has never been good with words.

He sits down, facing the portrait and looks, but his eyes can't speak with a painting, can they?

 _Fuck,_ this is harder than he anticipated it to be.

“Sorry you're dead,” he tries, his voice struggling to come out of a dry throat. “Sorry it's my fault,” he continues and clenches his fists. “Sorry I didn't see the fucking _truck_ coming our way, and that I didn't notice you haven't fasten your seatbelt and that we went for a ride on your End Day,” he scoffs, trying to ignore the knot on his throat and the burning in his eyes. Pathetic. “How fucking stupid we were.”

It's haunting, the emptiness left by Evgeni’s death. How clearly alone Kavinsky has been feeling ever since. “I miss you,” he tosses a pebble on the glass, not strongly enough to shatter it, just to make a little sound. It helps to ground him. “Fuck, I miss you and I thought I could _dream_ you,” he laughs, and it's such a sad sound. Not that he notices. “I tried. You're there, now, but you also wanna die, so I guess I fucked this up, too,” he shrugs. “Like I fucked us up.”

Kavinsky has never been one to apologise, or to blame himself for the mistakes he makes, but everything has always been different when it came to Evgeni, hasn't it? Kavinsky has never been one to love anything, but, well, there was Evgeni.

“I used to,” and he laughs at how pathetic it sounds, now, that memory. “I used to look up at the stars and wonder if you were there, if you'd listen to me if I talked. Fuck,” he fishes a green pill from his pocket and examines it. “I got something for you,” he says and takes it.

Not five minutes go by before he's back, a turquoise lava lamp in his hand. He lets out a weak laugh. It's the first thing he ever dreamt to Prokopenko, when he was trying to prove him he could take things out of his dreams. ‘Make it turquoise,’ Evgeni has asked and Kavinsky has been very happy to give it to him.

He leaves it by the door, on the corner.

“Hope you haven't found better shit at wherever you are, now, because I'm coming to you, Genko. And you know I've never been good at sharing what's mine,” he looks at the lava lamp and gets up. _I miss being yours,_ he thinks, but doesn't dare utter it. It'd be too unlike him, but he's always been unlike himself when it came to Evgeni Prokopenko.

He needs to get back to Henrietta. He has a fucking Fourth of July party to throw, a finale to make.

 

**21:56**

 

“How's the kid?” he asks Skov when he arrives at the Den.

“I don't know. Guess he fell asleep; he's been quiet for a while now. Or maybe he died.”

“He didn't die. Dreams don't die while their dreamers are alive.”

“What?” Skov turns to face him, dropping his phone on the couch. “Wait, what?”

“Ronan probably dreamt him. I mean, it can't be their father since the man is dead and Matthew isn't sleeping or something.”

“How do you know it? Did he tell you?”

Kavinsky scoffs. As if Lynch would ever tell him anything. “I have a hunch,” because Matthew Lynch feels like a dream, fleeting and unreal. Something to him feels a lot like Prokopenko feels, something _wrong_ and inhumane despite looking very much human and right. Dreams don't belong to this reality; dream creatures much less. Like a tourist in a foreign country, they don't fit in.

Matthew, though, there's some level of excellence to the forgery he is. He looks and feels much more human than Prokopenko or Andrei do, even though nothing like a real person. To imagine Lynch managed to dream a whole person so perfectly and still struggled to dream an ugly ass car. “Aren't you full of hunches today?”

He shrugs. Kavinsky can see Skov is obviously meaning to ask him something, biting at his nails and glancing every now and then. Skov’s hair is cyan now. He liked it better when it was white. “Shoot me,” he says and holds his laughter when his friend looks horrified. “The question, Skov. Whatcha wanna ask?”

“Ah,” he sighs in relief. Kavinsky chuckles this time. “Be serious with me. I've known you the longest here. What's the whole thing with Lynch?”

It's annoying, really, Skov’s insistence. “Why do you care? It's not something that will bother you tomorrow, anyway.”

“Is that what you think this is? That I'm concerned it'll bother me after you're _dead?_ ” he scoffs. “Dude, you're my friend. After you die today, I won't be thinking about Lynch, I can promise you that.”

“Then why are you asking?”

“Because I'm concerned?” he offers. “About you, about those days you simply disappeared and I found both you and Lynch wasted? What does he have on you?”

“Wanna play my shrink, Skov? On my End Day?”

“Do you have better plans?” he dares.

He has an idea and a smile creeps into his lips. “Yeah, Skovron. I do,” he lets that sink in before he speaks. “Race me. If you win, I'll tell you what's up with Lynch.”

“I'm not racing you on your End Day.”

“I ain't dying.”

“That's exactly the opposite of what your call said.”

“So what?” He fishes his keys from his pocket and dangles them in front of Skov. “Don't you want your answers?”

“So bad that I'd risk lose you? No, K, I don't want my fucking answers.”

It's odd, really, how Kavinsky still isn't used to having friends. He's been friends with Skovron and Jiang for three years, now. Two, with Swan. They know him like no one else and he knows them pretty well, too. They're family. But it's still weird, to want and to be wanted in a way that isn't sexual.

There's nothing he can offer them, but they're still around despite his shitty personality. Crazy bastards.

“Suit yourself, then.”

“Where are you going, K?” he asks when Kavinsky makes it to the door.

“The drag strip. I've got a party to throw.”

Skov runs and closes the door, the palm of his hand flat on the wood. Kavinsky laughs. “What's so funny?” he asks. “Tell me what's so fucking funny!” he shouts. Anger has always come easily to Blake Skovron. Swan and Jiang rush downstairs. “You spent half of your End Day driving around, are you seriously that stupid?”

“The fuck does that matter?”

The irritating thing about Joseph Kavinsky is that he rarely loses his temper. His anger is the silent kind, the kind that manifests in clenched fists that rarely meet a destination, that swirls in his veins and fuels every other feeling he has, but it never makes itself known. Skov’s anger, on the other hand, needs an outlet.

That's why they often fight. Kavinsky’s anger annoys Skov, which makes him angry, and he needs to shout or to punch something or both.

“Because we're friends! And you're dying and we haven't spent time together!”

“We had three fucking years. I think that's enough of me for a lifetime.”

“Well, it isn't. Not for us.”

“Not my problem if all of you are dumb enough to care about fire hazard,” and the look on Skovron’s face tells him that he's gone too far, crossed a line he shouldn't have crossed, but why does that matter? He's dying.

“The fuck are you like this?”

“It's how I've always been,” and he holds Skov’s gaze. “Have you only found that out now?”

 

**22:09**

 

The drag strip is already boiling with life when they arrived. Even in the dark, Kavinsky could see it is. Despite the fight and the grumbling, Skov tagged along as he always does. He smirks. He managed to live through twenty-two hours of his End Day; it's more than his father and Evgeni got to live.

On his way here, he figured his finale. It's gonna be awesome. It's gonna be fucking memorable.

The floodlights go on. There's a buzzing sound on his ears that muffles every shout and every cheer. Skov starts playing something in a language Kavinsky doesn't know, but it may be Spanish. It can be Chinese, for all he cares. It doesn't matter. This party is not about them, the crowd. This one is about him.

He pushes down the accelerator and leads the other nine Mitsubishi Evos, perfect forgeries he's dreamt long before today. They roar and race, they're alive. He turns the steering wheel abruptly and the car skids sideways, raising the dust from the ground. A cloud of dust illuminated in white. As the dust is still high, he climbs on the roof and takes a deep breath.

The very last one party.

“Let's burn something!” he shouts at the top of his lungs. He feels alive. He snaps his fingers and, just like magic, the first firework goes up, spiraling into the sky, far past the floodlights, and it showers the darkness in blue. He laughs and laughs. He feels alive and wild. It's his last night. He has about an hour and something before he dies. Ronan better find him quickly. “Fuck you all!” he shouts. “We're not gonna be missed,” he says as the music roars louder around him.

He sees Ronan approaching and he hops down the roof. His steps are sure and angry, he's _marching_ towards him, a soldier going against his nemesis and Kavinsky has to laugh. “Oh, hey,” he sneers, propping his arm on the open door. “It's Daddy,” then, he sees that girl. The hostess at Nino’s. He ignores her. “Dick, that's a strangely hetero partner you have there tonight. Lynch having performance issues?” he asks just to be a little shit.

It works because, within seconds, Ronan has a hand on his throat, his fingers pressed against the soft skin of his neck. He smirks. It feels better than it should, and Kavinsky is quickly amused by the thought that Lynch really believes he'd be capable of choking him to death.

“Where is he?” he growls, baring his teeth. Anger looks good on him.

Kavinsky waves at a random Mitsubishi. “In that car,” and his smile widens. “Or that one. Or that one. Or that one,” he pats Ronan’s shoulder and feel the grip tighten around his neck. “You know these things. They all look the same,” without a breath, he knees Ronan on the stomach and breaks free. He straightens his clothes just for the sake of it. “Here's the thing, Lynch, when I said with me or against me, I didn't really think you'd pick against me,” a Mitsubishi drives past them, making the girl leap forward. “But in a way,” he smiles warmly and opens his arms, “it's better this way. You know how I like things to explode.”

“I want my brother.”

 _And I want Genko back, but I ain't getting it, am I?_ He ignores it and grins, revealing the green pill in his hand. “First, save your life. I'll be right back, sweetie.”

And he swallows it.

 

He needs to do it fast, to get his dragon here before Ronan does. It'll be harder with him on his nerves. Fuck. He always hated the woods, with their whispering trees and briers. Kavinsky misses the shore, where he was a king and was given everything.

But ever since Evgeni's death, the shore is haunted by him, and the woods are more bearable, even though it's harder to dream there. The trees don't want him to, they always try to keep him from doing so. In the woods, he's a thief, and he knows it, which is why he gotta do it fast.

 _In and out_ , but the briers are piercing down on his cargo pants. “Come to me, baby,” he calls the dragon by the same time Ronan arrives, none so swiftly, elbows getting smeared with blood and dirt as he lands. “Guess our secret place is the same,” he says as he feels the thorns scratching the surface of his skin. It makes sense the woods are Ronan's. He grins, ignoring the burn of the cuts on his face and arms and torso.

“Not such a thief tonight,” Lynch mocks and Kavinsky barks a laugh. He holds back a whimper as the thorns cut through his flesh. He endured worse.

“Some nights, you just take what you want,” he lets the words drip from his tongue. In the woods, it's always been like that. No asking, no permission, no time for an agreement. Just get in, take it, and get out. “Consent is overrated.”

The branches shake above them and thunder rumbles somewhere. Kavinsky's grin shows too much teeth. Ronan looks at the trees then at him. “You don't have to do this,” he says and Kavinsky can't help but laugh.

“There isn't anything else, man.”

Because there isn't. Evgeni is dead, Death-Cast called, there isn't anything waiting for him after the bell rings midnight. He's gonna be dead by then. Not that Ronan knows, not that he will before Kavinsky's body hits the ground.

“There's reality.”

“Reality!” of course someone like Ronan Lynch would care about reality. Someone whom has had love since childhood tends to believe there's always something more to life. “Reality is what other people dream for you,” _what other people shove down your throat and force you to live through it._

“Reality's where other people are,” he stretches his arm. “What's here, K? Nothing! No one!” and it makes his skin crawl how Lynch thinks he has the right to call him ‘K’, to think they're friends.

“Just us.”

Kavinsky has never liked the portion of him that believes—hopes—that, if not for Gansey, Lynch could possibly look at him. Because it's pathetic and stupid, and he feels guilty for wanting it because it feels wrong if it's not with Evgeni. Here, they're alone, and he curses himself for letting his mind go astray. Here, thoughts and spoken words are about the same thing.

“That's not enough,” and Kavinsky feels angry, more at himself than at Lynch.

“Don't say Dick Gansey, man. Do not say it,” he asks. “He's never going to be with you. And don't tell me you don't swing that way, man. I'm in your head.”

Thoughts and spoken words. They're the same.

“That's not what Gansey is to me.”

So it means it's not Dick Gansey keeping Ronan from wanting him. It's just that Ronan doesn't _want_ him. Kavinsky feels pathetic. The thorns dig deeper. “You didn't say you don't swing that way,” he says, focusing on what bothered him the least.

“No, I didn't.”

It really just means that Ronan isn't interested in Kavinsky the way he wants him to be. “That makes it worse, man,” he doesn't know if this was directed at him or at Lynch. “You really just are his lap dog.”

Kavinsky can _hear_ how Ronan just thinks of Dick Gansey as a brother. His skin crawls. “Life isn't just sex and drugs and cars.”

He stands up and ignores the pain caused by the thorns whipping at his skin, tearing through its surface, making him bleed. _My blood will stain your fucking head, Lynch._ “Mine is.”

Kavinsky snaps his finger and his dragon screams. _Come to me, baby,_ he thinks again, and the forest weeps, withering and undoing. Trees bleeding until they collapse, thorns unravelling. Ronan's calm unravels with it. “You don't have to do this,” he tries, but Kavinsky does have to.

It's his finale.

It's his End Day and he's going down with a bang.

A trail of fire flies above their head. It's a forest fire and its smoke, cutting through the thin sheet between reality and dream. It's his finale. A white dragon made of destruction and hatred, and it's ready to kill him. He smirks.

It's the manifestation of hatred, and it's hungry, ready to destroy everything. The dragon screams, sparks shower over them and Kavinsky howls a laughter. “Try to keep up, Lynch.” 

He wakes up and watches as his best and last forgery flies up into the air.

 

**22:43**

 

Ronan takes a while to come back, a white night horror to match Kavinsky's. They fight, entangling themselves together in a chaos of claws and teeth and fire. Fireworks light up the sky, making out their silhouettes as they clash against each other.

The crowd cheers. They're as hungry as the dragon.

Kavinsky and Ronan watch them, too, as sparks fly over them. They hiss and screech, clawing and gnawing at each other. Beasts made of thoughts fighting in the sky. There's a beauty in their chaos, their terror. Orange flares from the battle blend with the colourful flares of the fireworks, and it all showers down on the crowd, who's so unaware of the magic flying above their heads.

To his left, he eyes as Dick and that girl run to the Mitsubishis, trying to find Matthew. He smirks and nods to the dragon. It breaks free from Lynch’s night horror and dives in, the air around it whistles. It crashes against a floodlight and Kavinsky laughs and leaps to his feet.

His best and last forgery.

His finale.

Ronan’s night horror comes down from the sky, its claws trying to reach for the dragon. They stumble down to the floor and then take flight again, a mess of white and fire and magic. The music blares around them, but it's still not enough to drown out the screeches.

The dragon looks at him, eyes of fire and smoke and _destruction._ His best forgery, for sure. The one that looks like him the most. More smoke and fire past smoke and fire. Nothing left, nothing else.

Kavinsky rejoices.

“Stop it,” Ronan says. _Oh shit, true, you're still here._

“There's no stopping it now, Lynch,” because Death-Cast called and it's almost midnight. He doesn't have much time left. The dragon flies above the drag strip, its wings scratching the ground, leaving a trail of fire. Then, its claws pierce through the roof of a car and it goes up in flames. Kavinsky sees the way Ronan searched frantically for someone.

“Tell me which car my brother’s in.”

“A white one,” he answers, eyes focused on the dragon.

The dragon takes flight again, getting ready to dive in against another car. _Don't worry, Lynch, your brother ain't gonna die,_ Kavinsky thinks as he watches the dragon. It crashes again.

Kavinsky laughs, loud and gloriously.

He snaps his finger and a firework goes up again, it outlines the creatures. Ronan’s night horror is trailing behind the dragon. Pathetic, if Lynch believes his dream can stop the dragon. It can't. It's like Evgeni, indestructible.

The night horror meets the dragon and they both fall on the ground. People shout and get out of the way. Some people don't manage to escape and die under the impact. Deckers. The creatures crash against a Mitsubishi. “Ronan!” the girl shouts.

Annoying.

Kavinsky sends the dragon after them.

Ronan sends his night horror after it.

“Do something!” Dick Gansey shouts and his voice has never been more annoying. _That's not what Gansey is to me._

“Okay,” Ronan snarls as he grabs Kavinsky’s arm. He lolls his head, unbothered. “We're done,” _we were never started._ “Where is my brother? No _more_. Where is he?”

Ronan has said ‘no more’, but there isn't any ‘more’ Kavinsky can want. He wanted _this,_ Lynch under these fireworks, screaming and giving him a thrill of life. With his free hand, Kavinsky indicates the Mitsubishi behind them. _It's over, anyway._ “He's all yours! You missed my _point_ , man. All I wanted was _this_ ,” and he points at the night horror and the dragon.

 _This_. A reaction from Ronan, something that told him Ronan is seeing him.

Lynch lets him go and scrambles to the car. He yanks the door open. “He's not in here!” he shouts, despair enveloping his voice.

“Boom!” he shouts as another Mitsubishi goes up in flame. There's fire everywhere. A siren wails in the distance. _This is it,_ he notes. It's already too late. He's gonna die. As Ronan slams the door shut, Kavinsky climbs onto the hood. _No way out._

Joseph Kavinsky has always been looking for death, for its silence and peace. He found it in his drugs, his parties. For a moment, he found it in Evgeni, even though it was far too good to make him wish for death. Then, the moment ended and his pills were his best friends. Cocaine and alcohol, they came soon after.

The smell of sulfur drenches the air.

With shaky hands, he grabs his sunglasses.

Joseph Kavinsky has always been looking for death. Now that it's here, his hands shake and he's afraid; a petrifying fear.

The white dragon turns towards him. Nothing else exists, but the inferno reflected on the lenses. Nothing else is real. Church bells blare against his ear, an echo of his call. _Live this day to the fullest, all right?_

 

_(and if there is no god)_

 

He hasn't.

But Joseph Kavinsky hasn't lived his life to the fullest, so it doesn't really matter, does it?

 

_(i know the day i die,)_

 

Ronan seems to realise that this very Mitsubishi Kavinsky is standing on, is the last of his forgeries still standing. Aside from the dragon and Prokopenko, but they won't be standing in a few moments.

He looks at the fire.

Purifying some shit.

 

_(i lived through heaven)_

 

Lynch pops the trunk open. Matthew kicks the door upwards.

_Fucking hell._

 

_(and that i gave it hell)_

 

“Get down!” Ronan shouts. He probably already has his brother safe. Kavinsky smirks. _Not this time, Lynch,_ he thinks.

These are his last words.

“The world’s a nightmare,” he says the only truth he's ever known.

The dragon goes up, dust dancing around it.

It prepares to come down.

 

_(and if it hurts, oh well)_

 

“Come down, your bastard!”

But Kavinsky doesn't answer. He refuses to. He looks at his Death flying towards him, all flames and smoke and sulfur. Choking, consuming.

Forgery meets forger in a muted sound that wipes all else.

 

_(at least, that's living.)_

 

**Author's Note:**

> so . that was a Ride. i wanna say that i have no clue at which time masses start so forgive me. also i took a poetic license to make the drive between virginia and new jersey a bit shorter than what it really is.  
> the quote at the end, it's from [rock + roll](https://youtu.be/geZ_5Ri7ANg), also by eden.  
> you can find me at @ floresetcorvi on twt, and @ haec-ceity on tumblr


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